


What Dreams May Come?

by stfustucky (iwillpaintasongforlou)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Coming In Pants, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, Geralt bears witness and likes what he sees, Jaskier gets very horny in his sleep okay don't judge him, Jaskier talks in his sleep, M/M, Masturbation, Semi-Public Sex, Somnophilia, Voyeurism, Wet Dream, amongst other things, dubcon because someone is asleep but everyone is having a good time I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26201584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwillpaintasongforlou/pseuds/stfustucky
Summary: Put simply, 5 times Geralt watches Jaskier have wet dreams +1 time he participates.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 32
Kudos: 660





	What Dreams May Come?

**Author's Note:**

> “To sleep – to sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub, for in this sleep... what dreams may come?” (Hamlet)
> 
>  **CONTENT WARNING:** this fic contains Jaskier talking and touching himself in his sleep while Geralt watches, as well as getting off by rubbing off on him while one or both of them are sleeping. Everyone is having a good time, but sleep makes consent impossible, so read on at your own risk! Be safe, kids.
> 
> Posted because it was brought to my attention that i'm just casually sitting on like 40k of unposted fics purely because I'm too lazy to post. So uh... here you go! Here's one of many.

**1\. An inn in White Orchard**

The first time that Geralt realizes that Jaskier sometimes talks in his sleep, it’s from across the room in a shitty inn in White Orchard. It had taken all night of Jaskier playing for him to earn enough coin for them to get a small room with two tiny beds. He’d come in and barely shucked his doublet and one of his boots before collapsing into one of the beds --the one closest to the fire, Geralt notes. He doesn’t mind. Jaskier will only whine about the cold otherwise.

If Geralt had his way, they would have just camped outside of the village as usual and saved the coin for something useful like food or supplies, but he can’t really say anything on the subject. The bard is the one who worked for the coin, so if he wants to spend it on one measly night of moderate comfort, that’s his own choice. He also could have gotten a room with a nicer bed  _ and _ a bath  _ and _ a hot meal if he hadn’t insisted on putting a roof over Geralt’s head as well, but Geralt knows better than to bring that up. Jaskier would only get offended and go off on one of his rants about Geralt deserving nice things. Whatever.

Jaskier is asleep almost as soon as he hits the mattress, worn out from a day of travel and a night of pouring all of his energy into the crowd to relieve them of their coin. Geralt rolls his eyes at the sight of him hanging half off of the bed. He’s going to wake up with all kinds of aches and then be a bear if Geralt lets him sleep like this. Setting his pack aside where he’d been rummaging through it for his armor cleaning supplies, Geralt crosses the room and removes his second boot, shuffling him more completely into the bed. Jaskier grumbles and whines when he works the blanket out from under him and covers him with it instead, but Geralt knows he prefers to be warm when he sleeps.

Not that it really matters to Geralt. He just doesn’t want to hear the bard complain, that’s all.

Once Jaskier is sorted, Geralt returns to his task of cleaning the day’s grime off of his armor. It’s a meticulous task, since werewolf blood has a terrible habit of working its way into every little nook and cranny and then stinking to high hell if not removed. It’ll take several hours before his work here is done, but at least with Jaskier asleep he’ll be able to let his mind slip into a meditative state as his hands tend to the rote work.

The candle is burning low the next time Geralt’s attention is pulled from the leather in his hands and back to the room. It takes him a moment to process what exactly had interrupted his peaceful state, because the room is just as calm as ever. If anything it’s quieter now, the noise from downstairs dulled as the hour grew too late for even the most determined of revelers. He’s about to return to his work when he hears the unfamiliar sound again.

It’s Jaskier, moaning quietly in his sleep, cheeks flushed pink and mouth open against his pillow. At first it’s just a low, wordless sound, but then Jaskier’s brows pull together and his lips tremble like he’s trying to form words. It makes sense; he’s never gone in for silence much, so of course he has things to say even while he’s sleeping. Probably dreaming of some heroic battle he needs to write a song about or something.

Then he shifts a little in his sleep and the blanket pulls away from his throat some, and Geralt can suddenly smell from clear across the room the potent and unmistakable scent of arousal. Maybe  _ not _ a dream about combat, then. He’d had Jaskier by his side during many a battle, and he’d never looked like that before, eyes flickering beneath their lids and fingers curling in the rough sheets. This seems to be a dream of an altogether more  _...pleasant _ nature.

“Yes, darling, just like that,” Jaskier says breathily, groaning once more into the pillow. “Give… give…”

Geralt would never admit to sitting with armor and brush in hand and waiting to hear the next words out of Jaskier’s sleep-slackened mouth. Either way, no such words ever come. The next sound out of the bard is just a soft snore, his breath slow and steady in slumber once more.

After a few minutes with no further conversation between Jaskier and the apparent maiden of his dreams, Geralt shakes his head and returns to the rest of the work that needs to be done after a quick readjustment of his trousers. Those few words play on repeat in his mind, a new mantra for his meditation as the candle burns down to nothing. Leave it to the bard to be a distraction without even trying.

**2\. A healer’s hut in Skellige**

“He should be alright soon, master witcher. The potion I gave him was just to put him to sleep while I did the stitches, slightly deeper than a normal nap but nothing to be concerned about,” the village healer assures Geralt as she cleans up the bloodied materials that had been resting on the side of Jaskier’s cot. “Give it an hour or two and he’ll be up and at ‘em. Just try to take care that he doesn’t do anything strenuous to pull those stitches out in the next few days and he should be just fine.”

Geralt grunts his acknowledgement before deciding that he probably ought to use actual words to thank the woman, considering she’s helping Jaskier free of charge. There’s a little goodwill towards Geralt in this village, considering that yesterday he’d helped clear out a meddling Leshen from the nearby woods. Good enough that when Jaskier went for a stroll down by the water early this morning to write a poem about the sunrise or something else idiotic and got jumped by a drowner and slashed down his side, the fisherman who found him stumbling bloody across the sand brought him straight to the healer’s hut and sent for Geralt next.

“I put my dagger through his eye, Geralt, you should have seen it!” Jaskier had told him when he’d burst into the hut, teeth gritted but smile triumphant. “Showed that slimy bastard who was boss. I could be your apprentice, I think.”

If he was talking, he was fine, so Geralt had just snorted. “Nice work. Did you bring back his brain? I need to make more Swallow.”

“I would have, my witcher dear, but I seem to have been a little bit… impaled,” Jaskier answers, at which point he slumps over against Geralt in a dead faint.

Now, a few rows of stitches and some healing salves later, Geralt watches over Jaskier’s slumber in the medicine tent with no small measure of pride. Anyone who made the mistake of taking Jaskier for a weakling never held onto that delusion for long. Not many men could survive a drowner attack with only a dagger, even if he got a little busted up. No doubt this would end up in one of Jaskier’s songs, and for once Geralt wouldn’t argue. This feat was ballad-worthy indeed.

He’ll have to see about arming the bard better, though. Geralt leans back in his chair and wonders whether he can find some sort of armor Jaskier will consent to wear under his stupid frilly doublets, or whether they’d mess with the cut of his figure or something.

Jaskier mumbles in his sleep a little, and the healing woman looks up from her work across the room cutting cloths into bandages, but Geralt just shakes his head. “He’s a noisy sleeper,” he explains with the wave of his hand. “He’s alright.”

She takes this as answer enough, though Jaskier seems determined to prove him wrong. His next mutter is louder, more insistent, and he draws in a deeper breath as if he was trying to get some volume behind the next few nonsense syllables that come out of his mouth. Then he huffs out what looks an awful lot like a laugh, as if amused at his own jokes. Geralt feels his own lips being tempted towards a smile as well, but he keeps the urge in check.

Maybe a protection spell that could absorb a small amount of blows, similar to quen. That’d give him enough time to retreat, at least, or call for Geralt. He’ll have to talk to Yen the next time they’re in town…

“That’s perfect,” Jaskier slurs, nodding his head as he turns his cheek against the pillow. “More of that.” He has a little drool coming out of the corner of his mouth in a way that should be disgusting but is actually a little endearing. Or it would be, if someone other than Geralt was looking at him. Geralt isn’t endeared by Jaskier at all.

Geralt reaches out to adjust Jaskier’s blanket, making sure it covers his bare shoulders. He’ll have to think about getting him a new shirt before they leave here today. While Jaskier probably has no qualms about strolling through town shirtless with his side flayed open, Geralt has some concerns. Maybe he can send the little boy he’s seen running around this part of the village with a coin or two and have him buy one, that way Geralt won’t have to leave Jaskier’s side.

“Perfect,” Jaskier mutters again, one hand flopping up to grip weakly at Geralt’s wrist where it fusses with the corner of the blanket. “Perfect cock. Gods, I want it. Please give it to me.”

A full five seconds of silence pass before Geralt is brave enough to look up at the healing woman, who looks straight back at him with raised eyebrows and a knowing smile. Geralt groans internally; the rumor is as good as spread. “Not my cock,” he makes sure to clarify regardless. “He must… have me confused with someone else.”

The woman’s eyes trail from Geralt’s face (which he knows is probably flushed) to his hand in Jaskier’s (which he quickly yanks away) and then down, quite boldly, to Geralt’s lap. If there is a god out there who listens to the prayers of witchers, he prays to it that the cock in question will remain subtle during her inspection. He can’t be sure what she sees, but when she meets his eyes again, the, “Of course, dear,” that she gives him is a little too cheeky for his comfort. “Just, ahem, remember what I said about not straining himself until those stitches heal up, hmm?”

Geralt leans back in his chair and sighs, silently willing Jaskier to wake faster. The sooner he can put miles between him and this town, the better. 

**3\. A clearing in the woods in Sodden**

Several bottles of wine have been emptied between the two of them tonight, and Geralt should probably be a little concerned about how giddy Jaskier is getting. He’s dancing around the fire with his lute and no boots, singing every jaunty tune he knows as if he hasn’t already spent the last several nights in a row singing his little heart out for crowds in every tavern they passed. That doesn’t show any sign of slowing him down, his voice just as enthusiastic playing for Geralt and Roach and whatever creatures the forest around them holds as it is in front of a proper crowd.

The new song about The Drowner’s Demise is doing very well; every time he plays it, clearly singing his own praises, there’s inevitably someone in the crowd who declares that Jaskier is full of shit. After that, all it takes is Jaskier conspiratorially lifting his chemise to show off his new scars and the crowd all but pelts him with praise and pennies alike. Geralt likes watching him perform that one. That little rush of pride when he sees Jaskier’s toned stomach and the scars he wears with pride must be secondhand from the crowd around them. 

They’re actually flush with coin for once, enough that Jaskier could afford all the wine he’d purchased and probably could have bought him  _ \--them-- _ a room for the night as well, if he’d been so inclined. Instead, he’d waited until they were halfway between towns, complained about the extra weight of all that wine in his pack, and declared that they should make camp and drink down their wares. Geralt couldn’t think of a good reason to deny him, so he found them a clearing and started them a fire and helped Jaskier work the corks free of a bottle or two.

Now, though, Jaskier’s joyous dancing is starting to bring him a little closer to the fire than Geralt would like, and he snorts as Jaskier pauses mid-lyric to address a particularly twinkly star in the sky. “Alright, enough,” Geralt rumbles, rising to pry the lute out of Jaskier’s fingers and push him gently towards his bedroll. “Time for you to sleep it off.”

“You have my lute now, Geralt, did you know that?” Jaskier cheerfully slurs. “Did you take it so that you can sing me a song?”

“I took it so you didn’t break it. I don’t want to hear you bitching for the rest of the season about how you fell on your arse and used your precious toy as a cushion on the way down.”

“If I did that, you wouldn’t be able to play me any songs,” Jaskier agrees solemnly. “What song are you going to sing me, Geralt?”

“A song called ‘go the fuck to sleep, Jaskier.’”

“I’ve -hic- never heard that one. I hope it’s -hic- in your proper register, darling, I’ll not have you -hic- straining your lovely voice to sing tenor--  _ oof,” _ he concludes as his arse hits the bedroll. “Very rude. I’m not tossing you  _ any _ coins for that one.”

Geralt carefully places the lute inside of its case and places it on top of their bags, out of the dirt and far from the fire or the path to the latrine Geralt had dug for them. Jaskier would be devastated if anything were to happen to it, and then Geralt would never hear the end of it, that’s all. “I’ll survive somehow. Lay down and close your eyes.” 

Jaskier does as he’s bid, surprisingly, seeming to lose steam now that he’s stationary instead of wandering around singing to the treetops. He sprawls gracelessly back on his bedroll, arms and legs each going in a different direction, breath quickly evening out into something deep and steady. One of his hands still draws circles in the dirt, the movement jerky and inconsistent, and Geralt gets the impression that he’s trying desperately to keep himself awake at this point.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Jaskier is fast asleep, and Geralt shakes his head with amusement. Now that the bard is no longer in need of supervision, he gets up and tends to Roach properly, murmuring apologies for making her wait to be brushed down for the night. “You know how he gets when he has to wait,” he tells her as he combs a few snarls from her tail. “We’d never get any peace.” Roach nickers her agreement.

Later, when Geralt is settling into his own bedroll for the night, he glances across the fire and can’t help that his eyes immediately zero in on a fairly obvious tent in Jaskier’s trousers. Apparently not even the wine he’d had could keep his overactive imagination suppressed, it would seem. One of his hands is pushed up under his chemise and doing something at his chest, and whatever it is must feel good because Jaskier whimpers in his sleep and the smell of arousal wafts over to Geralt

No real words come out of his mouth this time, only mumbles, but Jaskier’s hands seem to have a mind of their own. The one not under his shirt --and Geralt’s traitorous dick takes an interest when it registers that Jaskier is probably toying with his own nipples-- comes clumsily to rest on his crotch and give a little squeeze. Jaskier’s thighs twitch a little at the sensation, and his mumbling briefly increases in pitch as a shudder runs through him.

Geralt definitely shouldn’t be watching this. Or maybe he should. Just to make sure he didn’t hurt himself, right?

A slender hand pushes its way inside of Jaskier’s trousers and his smallclothes and wraps around his cock. Jaskier’s strokes are anything but graceful, but he seems to like it anyway, his face getting pinker and his sleepy noises continuing happily. Geralt’s eyes are glued to the motion of his fist working inside his clothes, technically hidden from Geralt’s view and only that much more fascinating because of it. Up and down, a little twist of his wrist…

… and then nothing, as Jaskier slips back into the kind of sleep that has no dreams, properly passed out once more with his hand down his pants and everything.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Geralt says to the sky, entreating them for some sort of guidance. They offer none. “Fuck.”

Hauling himself up off of his bedroll and moving to Jaskier's, the witcher pulls his hand free of his trousers and budges him over until he’s on his side, just in case his wine decides to make a reappearance. He forgoes putting the blanket on Jaskier’s alcohol-warmed body and balls it up under his head instead, a makeshift pillow to keep him comfortable in the night.

Jaskier isn’t the only one who feels compelled to get a hand around his cock that night, but Geralt has more self control than that. He’s not going to lay here and jerk it to the sight of his friend lost in the throes of a dirty dream. He’s not that desperate. He’s not even interested in the bard that way. It’s… just biology, that’s all.

**4\. Under a tree, outside Oxenfurt**

It isn’t just biology.

Geralt has given up on that line of thinking, unable to fool even himself anymore on the matter. Biology would explain the way that he gets hard when he smells Jaskier’s arousal, or hears the way his voice cracks on a moan. It probably doesn’t explain why he wants to do more than just take himself in hand to do away with the sensation, but rather finds himself imagining closing the distance between the two of them, kissing Jaskier awake, and taking care of Jaskier’s needs with his hands or his mouth until Jaskier shudders his release.

That’s… probably not just biology.

There’s no logical reason for Jaskier to be here, stretched out on his bedroll on his belly in the shade of the oak tree, skin golden in the warm sunlight and hair ruffling lightly in the same breeze that sways the wildflowers of the field they’re occupying. Geralt is here waiting for nightfall so that he can finish a contract on a nightwraith that haunts the abandoned mill behind them, but Jaskier has no reason to be. The city of Oxenfurt is visible in the distance, and Geralt knows that the bard could find a dozen different things to do in order to fill his time. Even if he wanted to be here to witness the actual fight, he still doesn’t need to be waiting here in this field with Geralt while the witcher grinds herbs just to keep his hands busy.

And yet, there he is. He’d spent an hour or two lazily strumming his lute, then had stretched himself out on his bedroll and declared himself in need of a nap. Geralt had grunted and continued his work, aware that he was being watched by Jaskier’s half-lidded eyes all the while. He pretended not to notice, and soon enough Jaskier was oblivious to the world, dozing peacefully in the warmth of the afternoon, head pillowed on his arms and looking quite content with the world.

Geralt isn’t even surprised when he starts to dream anymore. His scent is faint this time, the wind blowing his arousal off into the rolling fields, but Geralt is well attuned now to the little hitch in Jaskier’s breathing that usually happens when his dreams turn salacious. He looks up in time to see Jaskier start rolling his hips, grinding his cock into the bedroll padded with soft grass beneath and mewling his apparent satisfaction. It’s far from the first time, and it’s likely far from the last. Familiarity doesn’t make Geralt any less fascinated.

He  _ is _ surprised, however, when Jaskier moans his name for the first time.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, and for a moment Geralt thinks that he’s awake and noticed his audience. His eyes are still closed, though, body still clumsy with sleep. “Fuck, Geralt, please. Need you.”

It had only taken one time hearing his name for Geralt’s cock to take a keen interest, and by the time Jaskier is declaring his need, the fit of Geralt’s trousers is uncomfortably snug. This is… new. He’s heard Jaskier say all kinds of lewd things in his sleep, directed at imaginary lovers of all genders, offering and entreating all kinds of acts. Never before had he heard Jaskier utter a name, however. Never before had he heard  _ his _ name.

Jaskier’s hips are working as hard as the gears in Geralt’s brain, rutting against the mat beneath him with intent. The bard whimpers with what might be desperation. “Inside me, gods, please,” he pants, eyes flickering beneath his lids. “Fill me up. Geralt…”

Geralt’s last remaining shred of self-control goes to preventing him from going over there and giving Jaskier exactly what he’s asking for. It’s a close call, but he winds up merely unlacing his trousers and pulling his cock out instead, heedless of the exposed nature of his position or the possibility that Jaskier could open his eyes at any second and see him like this. That only makes it more exciting, to be stripping his cock in the open air, without regard for the danger. He finds himself working his cock in time with the little thrusts Jaskier makes against the bedroll, and it isn’t long before Geralt is spilling over his own fist with a stifled groan.

In the moments that follow Jaskier’s movements taper off little by little, until finally he rolls over onto his side and slumbers on, the dream apparently past.

Geralt looks down at his makeshift workstation and sighs deeply, immediately writing off the pile of neatly chopped celandine that he’d just made a mess of. Looks like he’ll be spending the rest of his day gathering herbs, then.

**5\. An inn in Novigrad**

Sometimes, when coin is low and Geralt is weary from the day’s fighting, Geralt forgets himself. Barriers come down and he forgets to maintain the careful distance between himself and Jaskier, both physical and otherwise. It’s easier on nights like those to just let things happen without fighting so hard to make them happen in the way that Geralt knows they ought to. It’s too much effort to be in control, sometimes, and some nights Geralt just doesn’t have it in him to try.

Jaskier never calls him on it, though; he seems to have a sixth sense for when all Geralt can handle is staying on his feet, and he takes over just as easy as breathing. He haggles with the Alderman for the full coin Geralt is owed, and with the innkeep for a room. He pushes Geralt into a tub full of piping hot water and starts washing the gore from his hair, and Geralt lets him. When the water goes cold, Jaskier pushes and pulls and pleads until Geralt drags himself back to his feet and into his sleep clothes and then down again into a bed that could have been made of bricks and still would have felt like a cloud.

Had Geralt been a little more aware of what was going on around him, he might have put up some sort of protest when the innkeep gave them a room with only one bed, or when Jaskier shuffled him into that bed instead of just letting him take the floor. He certainly would have protested when Jaskier joined him in the bed, pressed tight to his side in order to fit in the narrow space. It’s just asking for trouble, really.

But Geralt doesn’t have enough left in him to give whatever token protests he might have, and anyways Jaskier is warm against his side, and his breath fanning over Geralt’s skin is like heaven, and Geralt supposes there are far worse ways to fall asleep.

When he wakes, Jaskier has shifted halfway on top of him, their legs tangled together, Jaskier’s arm encircling his torso and his face pressed somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. His hips are rocking insistently into him, his hard cock rutting against Geralt’s thigh through the fabric of both of their smallclothes. Jaskier’s are already soaked through with his precum, and Geralt’s breath catches in his throat at the heady scent.

He’s smelled Jaskier’s seed before, of course. His nose is keen, and there had been many nights over the course of their years of companionship where Jaskier had come in from a night of revelry and Geralt could smell the sex on him. Not to mention all the times when they traveled and Jaskier would politely slip away for some private time, his own skin thick with the aroma. Geralt knows the smell just as well as he knows everything about Jaskier.

This is something else entirely.

Now, he’s seeing things unravel firsthand, and in exquisite detail. He can feel the tremor of Jaskier’s lips against his skin as he moans. He can see the moisture that starts dewing on Jaskier’s eyelashes. He can hear the rabbitting of Jaskier’s heartbeat as his pleasure winds higher. He can feel every flex of Jaskier’s cock within his smallclothes, and the way his muscles tense and relax in rhythm as he uses Geralt’s body shamelessly to get himself off, all while continuing to slumber on in oblivion.

Geralt is absolutely helpless to do anything but lay there and let him seek his pleasure, trying to suppress moans of his own. His cock is throbbing even without direct stimulation, Geralt feeling on edge just from the sensations of Jaskier riding his thigh to orgasm, but he doesn’t dare take himself in hand. He can’t wake Jaskier. He can’t bear the thought of Jaskier’s face shuttering with embarrassment. He can’t bear the thought of even an inch of distance between them.

When Jaskier comes, it’s with a broken, “Geralt!” that the witcher is pretty sure won’t stop ringing in his ears for days.

Jaskier goes lax against his side, breathing and heartbeat evening out, and Geralt stares at the ceiling in misery as his cock gives a valiant to follow Jaskier’s example of spilling inside his smallclothes with or without any help from Geralt. He recites the name of every beast he can think of, in alphabetical order, as Jaskier’s cum soaks into his own smallclothes. Geralt considers that if he were to come across another witcher right now he’d probably smell like Jaskier had marked him, and has to recite all the beasts again backwards before he gets an inch of self control back over himself.

It’s hard to say how many hours Geralt lies awake, perfectly still, until Jaskier finally yawns and stretches himself awake. He’s feigning sleep, an attempt to let Jaskier preserve some dignity, but he can still tell the moment his predicament dawns on the man with a startled jerk and a stifled gasp. Jaskier is careful not to jostle Geralt as he untangles himself from the witcher’s body and goes to clean himself up with the smell of arousal and shame thick in the room.

The bed feels too big and too cold without him.

**+1. Winter at Kaer Morhen**

One day that fall Geralt opens his mouth to ask Jaskier what he wants for breakfast, and is very surprised to hear the words, “You should winter with me in Kaer Morhen,” come tumbling out of his mouth. It’s too late to take him back, though, because Jaskier has instantly agreed, and his expression is so happy that Geralt can’t burst his bubble. He isn’t a monster.

It’s total bullshit when Jaskier crawls into his bed that first night claiming that he’s too cold, because his room has a fireplace that Geralt made sure was lit and the bed has a stack of furs thicker than Jaskier that Geralt had gathered himself, and no one on the continent could still be cold in there. He doesn’t kick Jaskier out of bed, though. He lets him tuck himself into Geralt’s side, leeching off of the witcher’s warmth like a kitten.

The closeness is harmless, after all. Nothing  _ untoward _ has happened between them at night in ages, not since the Novigrad Incident, as Geralt calls it within his head. That was a mistake, a fluke, some sort of disconnect in Jaskier’s mind about who he was in bed with in his dream and whose body he was actually using to seek his pleasure. It’s not something that’s likely to ever happen again.

Of course it happens again.

It’s just like the time before, with Jaskier half on top of Geralt and grinding against him, rousing Geralt from his sleep with his needy little noises. Geralt is already plenty hard himself, and that’s  _ before _ one of Jaskier’s hands finds a gap between Geralt’s shirt and his braies and slips underneath to rest his palm on the scarred expanse of Geralt’s abdomen.

He’s fairly certain that he didn’t say the emphatic  _ fuck _ that sounded inside his head out loud, but something wakes Jaskier regardless, the bard startling slightly and then freezing in place. Just like the last time, Geralt is a coward and pretends to still be asleep. He keeps the rise and fall of his chest steady even as Jaskier’s heaves, face carefully composed to blankness as he waits for Jaskier to roll off of him and go back to sleep on the other side of the bed.

Except that Jaskier  _ doesn’t.  _

After a moment, Jaskier lays his head back on Geralt’s chest and rolls his hips again, far more careful about stifling his moan at the sensation now than he ever is in his sleep. His palm is clammy with nerves at Geralt’s hip, the other one shaking as it fists in the sheets. Geralt can see in the dull glow from the fire that his eyes are squeezed shut, pretending to still be asleep even though Geralt can hear his heart racing.

_ He wants this, _ Geralt realizes with a start. Fully awake and aware of his actions, Jaskier still wants this. It isn’t a mistake or a dream, it’s an intentional choice. He wants to be getting off in this bed with Geralt, so much that he’s willing to take his pleasure with Geralt’s sleeping form. It’s messy and desperate and  _ wrong _ and Geralt might never have been this hard in his life.

Taking a deep breath, Geralt reaches his hand up to grasp Jaskier’s chin and lift his head until Jaskier’s wide, startled eyes meet his own. “Something you need, little bard?”

“G-Geralt!” Jaskier squeaks, face pale and suddenly fearful. “Sorry, I wasn’t-- That isn’t what I’m sure it looked like, I was just--”

“I know what you were doing,” Geralt interrupts his babbling. “You aren’t subtle, even in your sleep. This isn’t the first time I’ve woken up to you using me this way.”

Jaskier’s face flushes deeper. “Gods, the other time, in Novigrad, you knew about that, too?”

“I had to lay there all night with your cum seeping through my braies and drying on my skin,” Geralt smirks. “You know how sensitive my nose is. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice, when you woke up and saw what you’d done? Even if I’d been asleep the whole time, I would have been able to tell in the morning.”

“Fuck,” shivers Jaskier. “You didn’t say anything, and I thought-- it hadn’t seemed like it bothered you last time, so maybe you wouldn’t mind if I… fuck, Geralt, I’m sorry, I’ll just--”

He starts to roll off of Geralt at last, but the witcher reaches out with lightning fast reflexes and holds him firmly in place. “I never said I minded,” he says slowly, making sure he has Jaskier’s full attention.

Two full breaths of silence pass between them before Jaskier dares to speak. “What are you saying, Geralt?”

Slowly, carefully, Geralt removes his hands from where they’re holding Jaskier in place and moves to put them behind his head, propping his head up so that he can lie back and just look at Jaskier. “I’m saying that if you want to rub your cock against my thigh until you come in your smallclothes, don’t stop on my account.”

Jaskier’s groan is instantaneous, and the continued rocking of his hips follows just a second later. “Fuck, Geralt, you have no idea what it’s like traveling with you. All the time, no matter what you’re doing, you just look like sex on legs. The amount of time I spend trying not to get hard around you is unbelievable.”

“Oh, I believe it,” Geralt says with a laugh. “I can smell it on you, Jaskier. You hardly smell like yourself when you  _ aren’t _ aroused. Which doesn’t make it easy for me, either, by the way. Desperate for it all the time, and then every time I turn around you’re in someone else’s bed. Even when you sleep, I don’t get any damn peace.”

Jaskier is grinding his cock against Geralt harder than ever, and whether it’s the friction or the conversation that’s getting to him, he looks like he’s right on the edge. “Geralt,” he whines, and it’s a fervent plea. He drops his head to hide his face in Geralt’s chest, only to be exposed once more when Geralt curls his fingers in the short hair at the nape of Jaskier’s neck and manhandles him into looking up once more. “Geralt? What--”

“Look at me when you come,” Geralt orders him, voice rough and low with his last vestiges of self control, knowing as he says it that he  _ will _ be obeyed. “I want you to look right into my eyes when you come for me, Jaskier.”

He looks even more gorgeous than Geralt would have imagined, pupils blown wide and cheeks pink and mouth caught open around a moan. There’s a twitching against Geralt’s thigh, a seeping of warmth, a bloom of that musky aroma that is Jaskier’s sex, and then Geralt’s hold in the bard’s hair is the only thing keeping him up as the rest of his body goes lax against him. “Thank you,” he pants out, still looking up at Geralt. “Gods, thank you for that.”

Rather than answer, Geralt releases his fistful of hair --carefully, giving time for Jaskier to adjust to the responsibility of having to hold up the weight of his own head again-- and deftly rolls them over on the bed so that he’s the one on top. Unlike Jaskier, however, he leans back to sit on his heels, one of Jaskier’s legs trapped beneath him and the rest of the man’s body spread out before him like a buffet. Even like this, just seconds after spending, looking tired and sated, Geralt has no doubt that Jaskier would let Geralt take him however he wanted.

“You look very smug,” he grumbles as he reaches for the tie at the front of Jaskier’s sleep trousers. “Ought to send you back to your own bed, if you’re going to be a brat.”

“Who, me? A brat? Never in my life,” Jaskier says breezily, following the movement of Geralt’s hands with curiosity. He shivers a little when Geralt pulls down his clothing to reveal the mess within, Jaskier’s softened cock coated in his own come. He doesn’t make a noise of protest, though, not until Geralt reaches out and gives his softened length a single stroke and he lets out a yelp. “Look, if you’re not done playing with me I certainly won’t be the one to wave the white flag, but you should know that I am  _ not _ a university student anymore, nor am I a witcher, so it’s going to be some time before you can raise that sail again.”

“Here I am, still left wanting, and you’re talking of a second round for yourself? And here I thought you had a courtly reputation as a  _ generous _ lover,” Geralt tsks, pushing his own clothing down around his thighs in a mirror of Jaskier’s.

“I certainly-- left want--  _ oh,” _ Jaskier babbles with an uncharacteristic lack of elegance as he watches Geralt stroke his own flushed, hard cock with Jaskier’s cum slicking the way. “Oh, yes, very good, this is  _ excellent, _ yes.”

“Hush,” Geralt grumbles, then follows it up by leaning forward to capture the bard’s lips in a kiss. No sense in giving him an impossible order without offering any help following it.

Kissing Jaskier is a beautiful thing. He’s had decades of practice and they show, his soft lips confident and alluring as they move over Geralt’s lightly chapped ones. Geralt hadn’t previously been aware that someone could dominate a kiss, but Jaskier does, seizing control of the way tongues and teeth and lips collide. It takes only a heartbeat for Geralt to yield to him, letting himself be taken along for the ride and knowing that Jaskier won’t steer him astray.

Meanwhile, he shifts until his cock rests in the curve of Jaskier’s hip, right where the worst of the mess is, then places his messy hand on top. It creates a warm channel between his palm and Jaskier’s stomach, slicked with his cum, and Geralt can’t help but groan into Jaskier’s mouth as he pulls his hips back and then pushes forward. He’s fucking into the narrow space hard and fast, chasing his release as Jaskier’s hands run through his hair and across his shoulders and across the curve of his jaw. 

When Jaskier closes his teeth around Geralt’s lower lip and bites down just hard enough to draw blood, it’s all over for Geralt.

Once Geralt is done adding his seed to the mess on Jaskier’s body, he pulls his mouth away from Jaskier’s with no small amount of regret and kisses his way down his body. Jaskier’s belly is still as he holds his breath, waiting to see what Geralt is going to do, and the witcher doesn’t keep him in suspense for long. He relishes in Jaskier’s startled moan as he starts to clean their combined cum from Jaskier’s skin with his tongue, savoring the taste. He wonders how many times it’ll take before it becomes familiar on his tongue.

Finally he draws his mouth from Jaskier’s skin, leaning back so that he can work Jaskier’s seed-stained clothing down his legs and toss it over the side. He lets his own follow directly after; there’s no sense in modesty now, after all. Settling back down onto the mattress, Geralt looks across the pillows at Jaskier, still dazed and quiet beside him.

Jaskier seems to find his tongue after a few blinks. “Gods, what I wouldn’t give to know what’s running through that head of yours,” he says, voice cracking like he’s had his throat fucked instead of some mutual frottage, and  _ that’s _ an idea for Geralt to make note of. “Normally I like your stoically unreadable witcher eyes, but it’s throwing me for a bit of a loop right now.”

“I’m thinking that next time you want something, you should wake me up so that I can fuck you properly,” Geralt’s mouth says before his brain can stop it.

The shiver that runs down Jaskier’s spine is visible, as is the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and the mischief in his eyes. “I think I can agree to those terms.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this fic, go say something nice to a teacher. That's not relevant to the fic at all, teachers are just living in hell right now so like, go make them hate life a little less today. Thank you for coming to my TedTalk
> 
> Stfustucky | tumblr  
> @stfustucky | twitter  
> Charlie Stfustucky#3055 | discord


End file.
